1. The Trains are Always Late in Purgatory

Chapter one

The Trains are Always Late in Purgatory

"Attention, passengers to Greed," a bored voice crackled through the speakers of the station, forcing Oliver's gaze away from the game of solitaire he was playing on his phone to listen intently. "The next scheduled train has been delayed by twenty minutes."

A chorus of frustrated groans erupted around him as Oliver stared down at the clock on his screen in horror. Twenty minutes? At this rate, there was no way he was making it to his interview on time. They'd already cancelled the first train he'd planned to take to the Greed district. And now the next one was delayed?

Rising from his chair, he walked over to the screens displaying the different train schedules. Maybe he could take a line to another district and catch a transfer?

Unfortunately, he wasn't familiar with Hell; he'd ventured through the veil only once before, and he hadn't been completely sober at the time. He and his friends had been celebrating Oliver's college graduation, and Jude had suggested heading to the Gluttony district to keep the party going. Feeling tipsy and daring, they'd all agreed.

Oliver had very few memories from that night, but he was pretty sure he'd made out with some sort of deep-sea demon at some point. He had the vaguest recollection of kelp-like hair brushing over his collarbone, and he couldn't decide whether he wanted to remember the rest or if the alcohol-induced amnesia was actually a blessing.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the Hell's Pentagram map he'd briefly studied last night. The Pride district was in the center of the Pentagram, so maybe he could take a train there and then jump on a tram to Greed? Granted, it probably wouldn't get him to Greed any faster than if he just waited here in Purgatory for the direct line. But at least he'd be moving; at least, he'd be doing something.

Turning away from the monitors, he spotted the customer service counter where all but one window was closed. A blue demon with medusa-snake hair was speaking into a cellphone in a language he didn't recognize as she painted her nails, and he approached warily.

He didn't want to interrupt her because she seemed quite impassioned by the topic of her conversation, but maybe she would know an indirect route he could take. She worked for the transportation system, right? Who better to help him navigate the Hell dimension?

At first, he waited for her to acknowledge him, but when she simply sent him a cursory glance before continuing to paint her nails, he placed a hand on the counter and cleared his throat. She ignored him. He cleared his throat louder. She swiveled slightly in her chair to face farther away from him.

Seriously?

"Excuse me," Oliver said tightly.

She spoke louder into her cellphone.

He tried again, infusing his tone with firmness, "Excuse me!"

The blue demon huffed, and the snakes on her head turned to him and hissed menacingly as she snapped, "What?"

"I have a question."

She had the audacity to roll her eyes before she spoke into the phone, then set it aside. "Fine. What do you need, K.O.?"

K.O.? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Ignoring the possible insult, he motioned vaguely behind him toward the platforms. "The train for Greed is delayed," he started, and she blinked at him.

"Uh, yeah. What do you want me to do about it?"

Oliver inhaled, then exhaled slowly through his nose, fighting for patience. "I was just wondering if there is another way I can get to Greed quickly? You see, I have a job interview—"

She cut him off with a wave of her three-fingered hand. "No offense or anything, but your job interview is not my problem."

Miss Snake-Hair brought her cell back to her ear, and Oliver made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat as he knocked on the glass separating them. "Is there a detour I can take? An alternate route?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because you work here!" he said emphatically, and the rattles framing the demon's face clattered in warning.

"Listen here, slug," she snarled, rising from her chair to hiss in his face, the glass between them fogging from her hot breath. "This is Purgatory. The trains are always late. Get over it. You want to file a complaint? Whine to Brad!"

With one last growl of rage—and another severe rattle of her snake hair—she dragged down an opaque window shield with the words, "Window Closed! See Next Available Representative!" and a horned smiley face emoji printed across it.

Flabbergasted, Oliver spun in a slow circle, then threw up his hands. "Who the fuck is Brad?"

He stood at Miss Snake-Hair's window for another thirty seconds to see if she'd reconsider helping him before giving up and heading toward the restrooms. He used the toilet, then washed his hands furiously, checking his appearance in the mirror. He was wearing the suit he'd bought off the rack for his college graduation months ago, and a green tie that he'd been told brought out the hazel in his eyes.

His eyes didn't look particularly hazel to him, just muddy brown, but he didn't think the accounting firm in Greed cared about eye color. Or maybe they did. Maybe it was a demon culture thing to only hire people with red eyes or something. He really should have done more intense research about the Hell dimension before applying to work in it.

When he'd told his parents about the job interview during their last video call, they'd both been less than enthused.

"You want to work in… Hell?" his mother had said, fingers tracing the cross pendant hanging from her throat.

"Why don't you come back to the ranch, son? I hear Mrs. Elliot's grandson just came out as one of those bisexuals," his father had said, before turning to his mom and lowering his voice. "Right, Maggie?"

His mother had nodded. "Um, I think so? He's, uh, queer, but I'm not sure—"

Cutting her off with an enthusiastic nod, his dad had grinned proudly at him through the screen. "He's some sort of gay. We could set you up." The hope in his dad's eyes almost smoothed out the sharp edges of his words. "Come home, son."

Knowing his parents loved him, even if they didn't understand him, was almost enough to erase the pain their ignorance caused him. He knew they didn't mean to hurt him; he knew they were trying. But the idea of returning home where he'd be accepted and loved despite who he was made him feel like he was suffocating.

"I don't want to date Mrs. Elliot's grandson," Oliver had said, fighting hard to keep the bite from his tone. "Just because it's been hard to find a job here in Chicago doesn't mean I don't have options. And maybe Hell has opportunities that Chicago doesn't."

"But it's… Hell." His mother had looked significantly at her husband, as if his father had a better chance of talking sense into him.

"Which is just another place in the universe, Mom." Before either of them could speak again, Oliver had said, "Listen, I gotta go."

"Oliver," his mother had started at the same time his father had said, "Listen, son."

"I'll call you next weekend. Love you." Then he'd shut his laptop, ending the video call.

He'd felt bad about it later, ending their conversation so abruptly. But he needed their encouragement and support, not their reservations or biases. The Hell dimension wasn't like the Hell from the Bible that his mother had grown up reading about. It was just another location within their known universe that humans finally had access to.

"You about done?" someone said from behind Oliver, and he startled, realizing he'd been standing in front of the sink, staring at his reflection for an embarrassing amount of time.

"Sorry," he mumbled as he stepped out of the way so the eagle-like demon could wash his hands—er, talons.

As he exited the restroom, the intercom voice crackled over the speakers with another announcement. "Attention, passengers to Greed. Last call for boarding on Platform G."

"What?" he shrieked, hoping he'd heard wrong.

"Last call for boarding," the disembodied voice said, like it had heard his cry of denial. "Platform G to Greed."

"Fuck," he barked before he broke into a desperate sprint.

Two minutes and a bucket-load of sweat later, Oliver stood on Platform G, watching the train disappear into the distance. Chest heaving, he set his empty briefcase down and shrugged off his suit jacket. Loosening his tie, he muttered under his breath and fought the sudden urge to cry in frustration.

"Oh, come on!" he shouted to no one. "Apply to a job in Hell, they said. It'd be easy, they said. Fucking piece of shit mother—"

Someone shifted in his peripheral, and Oliver swallowed the rest of the curse as he made eye contact with a grandmotherly demon, leaning heavily on her cane. She blinked owlishly up at him through her thick-lensed glasses. Patchy wings fluttered behind her, and she gave him a gummy smile.

"Ain't Purgatory a bitch?" she said in a deep, guttural voice before she tottered away, leaving a trail of frayed gray feathers behind her.

Oliver checked the next platform over—Platform S—on the off chance he could jump on another train and figure out his transfer on the way. But Platform S was deserted. It was dusty and covered in graffiti and what looked like tumbleweeds, though they were inky black and appeared to be… leaking? Oily liquid left trails across the concrete as the tumbleweeds rolled in the slight breeze from the short train tunnel.

A large wrought-iron gate stood at the end of the tracks, holding a weathered sign with the symbols of Hell's demonic language pressed into it. Below the symbols, in smaller letters, it said, "Sloth District: Coming Soon!"

Careful not to touch the decrepit sign—he didn't want to contract demon tetanus or something—he craned his neck around the iron and stared down the train tracks. Well, what was left of them. They barely reached the end of the tunnel, trailing off into the hard desert landscape of Purgatory. Like they'd started building the tracks before losing interest and leaving it to be overtaken by nature.

Thoroughly creeped out, Oliver backed away from Platform S and headed back the way he'd come. His trip back to the customer service counter was a slow slog. He tried to call the accounting firm to ask if he could reschedule his interview, but the receptionist was about as unhelpful as Miss Snake-Hair had been. He'd hung up on Oliver with a clipped, "I'll give Mr. Vlaire the message."

"Sure you will," Oliver muttered before pocketing his cell and gazing forlornly at the line of closed service windows. It looked like a refund for his ticket wasn't in his future either.

At the end of the service counter, there was a box and sign beside it reading, "Have a suggestion for how we can improve? Let us know!"

Underneath the Comic Sans someone had written in Sharpie, "Or don't. No one actually reads these."

Oliver folded his blazer over his arm and pinched the bridge of nose. "Fuck me."

"Sorry, honey, I'm on the clock," someone chirped from beside him, and Oliver jumped with an undignified shriek as he rounded on a demon wearing a custodian jumpsuit. They were a shocking shade of orange and covered with wickedly sharp spikes. He did his best not to grimace, because sex with this demon would probably end in him riddled with holes like Swiss cheese.

"I was… talking to myself," he said, and the orange demon shrugged.

"Your loss," they said as they hoisted a full bag of garbage into their cart and lumbered away.

After checking the list of train departures—the word "delayed" blinking behind nearly every destination—Oliver officially gave up any hope of making it to Greed before the firm would close for the evening. If he was lucky, they'd reschedule his interview. But he wasn't holding his breath.

It had been a long shot anyway. He was human after all. Why would they hire him when they could find more qualified demons who actually lived in Hell?

Since he had almost forty minutes until the next train back to Chicago, he gripped his briefcase close and meandered toward the large exit doors of Purgatory Station. Before he pushed through them, he hesitated. Was this even safe? Did humans… hang out in Purgatory? Or was he about to put himself into a dangerous situation?

As far as he knew, Purgatory was an empty in-between place, separating the human dimension from Hell's dimension. The only way through for humans—and most demons—was the trains that traveled through the veil, connecting Purgatory to specially chosen, major cities in the human world. Chicago was one of three ports in the U.S. that traveled between the two dimensions.

The U.S. government had chosen Los Angeles and New York City for their locations on opposite coasts. Chicago had been chosen as the third port because it was the biggest city within the central U.S. time zone, which—as luck would have it—matched up with Hell's time zone almost perfectly.

There were other ports around the world as well. London. Paris. Tokyo. Australia was building one in Brisbane, and Russia was still in negotiations with the demon government over a port in Moscow. Oliver had heard rumors about a private crossing they'd built underneath the Kremlin, but he didn't think it was true.

Since Oliver was lucky enough to live in the same time zone as Hell, he'd extended his job search to include the demon dimension. He'd applied to several accounting firms, but only one had called him in for an interview. And he'd managed to fuck it up already.

As if the universe wanted to rub it in, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, opening the email he'd just received. Due to his "lack of appearance" for his interview, the firm had decided to "go in another direction."

Hanging his head in defeat, he sighed. "Back to Montana it is," he lamented, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Mrs. Elliot's grandson will be thrilled."

When he'd left his small hometown for the big city of Chicago five years ago, he'd been so sure that he'd make it. But his accounting degree had done little to land him a stable job that paid enough for him to afford city living, and he was already two months late on rent. He lived with three other people in a loft apartment in a suburb of Chicago, and he couldn't even afford that.

The last thing he wanted was to move back in with his parents with his tail tucked between his legs, but what other choice did he have? This accounting job had been his Hail Mary!

Shaking off the morose thoughts, Oliver pushed through the doors and into the harsh sunlight of Purgatory. The air was dry. The wind was hot. The landscape was reminiscent of an Arizona desert, though the sand was an odd teal color, and the sky was a hazy egg-yolk yellow. It was jarring and surreal, and the lizard part of his brain urged him to turn around and run away from the alien place.

He breathed through the instinctual panic and tightened his sweaty grip on his briefcase. There was nothing here except the station and another building a few hundred yards away, housing the DDMV—Department of Demon Motor Vehicles. The line of waiting customers snaked out the doors and curled around the building, disgruntled demons of all shapes, sizes, and colors waiting their turn.

Other than the DDMV, his surroundings were barren.

Oh wait. On second glance, not completely barren.

A tiny little building stood to his right. He hadn't noticed it at first because the walls of the building were built with yellow stone that nearly blended into the sky behind it. The roof was made of a red metal of some sort, and the front door—which was the only reason Oliver had even noticed the building at all—was a bright purple.

Since he had a lot of time to kill, he gave into his curiosity and wandered toward the building. As he approached, he read the sign above the door aloud, "Passing Through Cafe."

Beside the purple door, a tiny, hand-written sign had been staked into the sand, reading, "Watch out for ninja stars!"

His curiosity outweighed his wariness, so he reached for the door handle. Before he could open it, the door swung open, and Oliver stepped aside as a pair of furry, panda-looking demons stepped out of the cafe hand-in-hand. He could smell the sweet pastries, coupled with bitter coffee grounds and something savory and cheesy, and his stomach growled. He caught the door before it closed, pulling it back open, and took his first, hesitant step into The Passing Through Cafe.